


Grumpy Old Spies: The Old Man and The Ice Prince  Part 2

by Batagur



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2015-07-09
Packaged: 2018-04-08 13:36:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4307115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batagur/pseuds/Batagur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Number One of Section One, North America, keeps his operational budget on track.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grumpy Old Spies: The Old Man and The Ice Prince  Part 2

**Author's Note:**

> beta'd by the_haunt because you deserve the very best. Any residual booboos are my own damn fault. Dedicated to the_haunt as well, because, right now my big, size 9 foot in my mouth taste awful. I just want her to know, I'd walk through fire to be her friend.  
> ++++

I had heard it in the merest sigh of breath that came with his "yes." No one else would have heard it. He was ready to come home to me. I am ready to have him home by my side. After I had hung up, I called my executive assistant. I wanted my afternoon cleared. Illya was coming home. 

I spared myself a moment to recheck all current deployment status. All the affairs were in order for now. There was only one whose status had me concerned. However, a bad blunder had been avoided in Boston that could have caused this organization no small amount of embarrassment. I know that Illya had handled it discretely. Cooper and Foxx would adjust smoothly. They were young, intelligent, and flexible... sort of like another young UNCLE team I could recall from the past . 

With a final reassurance from my executive assistant, I finally left the office through my private exit. I expected Illya to come directly to the penthouse, not to the office. His flight would land just after 7 PM. There was really no reason to report in to HQ. He knew I would not be there. 

I was just pouring the wine when he entered, trench coat in one hand and black Prada messenger bag in the other. He looked travel-weary. This was Illya showing his age. He didn't weather the constant hustle and bustle of our profession as well as he use to. His dark grayish-gold hair lacked its usual luster and his eyes lacked their usual alert shine. He sighed slightly as he nudged the door closed with the edge of his bag.

"Be a dear and reset the alarm?" I asked. I could not resist poking the bear. He shot me a chilly glare, and I smiled. 

I didn't stick around to see if he had complied with my request. I went into the kitchen to retrieve dinner. A nice chicken artichoke with angel hair pasta would help bring back his energy. When I returned with the steaming bowl of pasta, he was already in his seat with a napkin in his lap. 

As I rounded the table to serve him, I smiled again. He looked me over with all his cool and aloof Kuryakin Ice Prince charm. His eyes narrowed, a wordless warning that I was not serving his dinner fast enough. I could not suppress a chuckle as I put a heaping amount of pasta on his plate. With a fresh tossed salad to his right, a goblet of water and glass of Chianti to his left, and bread at easy reach, he was ready, but he did not raise his fork until I had sat down and served myself. 

We ate in an easy, pleasant silence. I watched him as he enjoyed his salad and pasta. Illya is careful of how he eats these days. Age eventually slowed down that blast furnace metabolism of his. He tries very hard to limit his intake. I knew he could eat everything I put on his plate, but he would not. After he had put a sizable dent in his meal, he touched his lips with his napkin and looked up at me.

"No word from Milliner and Fairchild?"

These two agents were over due by three check-ins. I sipped my wine, clearing my mouth. "No." 

I hoped that my single-word reply would not convey the worry I was feeling, but as I looked into his eyes, I knew he knew. He knows me far too well. 

"We have lost one pair already...."

"I know," I interrupted. It galled me that such a petty, asinine illegal weapons operation should pose such a problem. It should have been child's play-- a quick search and destroy mission of a facility that we had been aware of for months. The owner of the operation, Daren Hayward, was a young punk with a degree from MIT and plenty of daddy's money to help payoff the local officials. Tucked away in the backwoods of upstate New York, the little weapons-making facility worked with relative impunity. The problem was, their little toys were finding their way into hot spots all over the world. 

Search and destroy was the sole order. One team tried and died, and now Milliner and Fairchild have not checked in. 

"What will we do, Napoleon?" Illya's voice was too gentle. Yes, he was reading me. I stood up and moved away from the table.

"More wine?"

"No," he said. 

I poured myself more and moved away from the table. The reflection of candlelight flickered off the large windows across the living room. I could see Illya in that reflection, still seated and watching me with a careful look. His lips pulled down in the slightest of frowns. 

"What will we do?" He repeated. He knew I was already working on a plan.

"What I'm going to do is a little reconnaissance," I replied.

"We leave tomorrow?"

"I leave," I said firmly. "You stay here in New York."

He was silent. His face in the reflection was unreadable. I knew that if I turned around it would be no different. He stood then, coming down from the dinning area and crossing the living room to stand just behind me; he was so close I could feel the heat of his body through my clothes. 

"I need you here," I said. "I have too many operatives in tricky positions... too many balls in the air...."

"Then let me help...."

"You will," I said turning to him. "I need you in New York, Illya, watching my back... as always."

I watched his face as he absorbed my meaning. I then watched his eyes as he fought an urge to mulishly argue the point. He looked directly into my eyes, and the luster of his blue eyes changed, softened. I touched his face. I ran my fingertips across his cheek and traced the firm set of his lips. He wasn't pleased with my decision, but he would abide it. 

I touched my lips lightly to his, and it was like setting a match to tinder. He surged up into my arms.

"'Pasha!"

I had missed him. He had missed me. Our deprivation was reflected in the desperate passion of our kiss. I held him close with one arm. He pushed his fingers through my hair as our mouths sought deeper contact over and over again. Teeth nipped my lower lip. Then his tongue soothed the bite. My mouth opened and I took his tongue in. Its wet suggestive motions were stimulating my imagination and sending a rush of blood to certain portions of my anatomy. 

The kiss ended mutually. My forehead rested against his. 

"Perhaps it is time to take this discussion to the bedroom?" His voice was husky with desire. I smiled, gazing into his blue eyes.

He took the wineglass from my hand and deposited it on a nearby flat surface that happened to be his eight hundred dollar stereo. At least he avoided setting it directly on the CD port. His fingers laced themselves into mine as he lead me back through the living room, past the dinning room and up the spiral stair to the second floor. 

Illya lead me into our bedroom. I had left a bedside light on. I knew it wouldn't take long for us to get in here, and I hate fumbling around in the dark. I did enough of that in my youth. As he pulled me close again, I slipped his glasses off his nose and sat them carefully on the bedside table. Reaching up to me and bringing his lips to mine, he kissed me once more. There was an impatient demand in his touch. Tonight he would take the lead.

I love it when he takes the lead, but I'll never tell him that. I suppose my reluctance is due to a strange need to live up to a level of arrogance that he expects from me, if that makes any sense. It doesn't matter in the end when I see his toes curl. I know what I do to him and I know how to do it in every position. Top or bottom, pitcher or catcher, I know what I do to Illya Kuryakin. 

As he kissed me, a sweet, low growl emanated deep in his chest, as one of his hands went to the fly of my pants. After deftly handling both button and zipper, the hand shot down under the waistband of my boxers, and I was seized and handled none too gently. Well, there would be no foreplay this night. I pulled back from him carefully and put a gentling hand to his lips.

"Shhh... Slow down," I whispered. 

"No," he replied and took two of my fingers into his mouth like they were candy to be savored. He was making it hard for me to think, but I've been in far more distracting circumstances. 

I chuckled. "Okay then." Really, there was no use arguing with him when he was so focused. Illya was a man on a mission when it came to his two favorite 'life essentials': food and sex. 

It was a relatively easy task to get him down to the bed and partially undressed. I just needed the pants out of my way, and he gladly obliged until both pants and boxers were around his ankles, stopped there by his shoes. Normally shoes-on-the-bed is a pet peeve of mine; I let it go this time. My only regret was that I wouldn't be able to watch his toes curl. 

He pulled his shirttails up, revealing his perfect erection to me. That was presentation at its finest and most basic. I took the invitation, kneeling on the bed next to him. I bent over him to take the rose-blush colored head of his cock between my lips. 

He is probably the only living soul who knows how much I love sucking cock. I love doing it so much that Illya often says there are three individuals in our relationship: me, him, and his penis. Certainly it does seem at times that his penis and I could carry on happily by ourselves. I love lavishing the firm Russian rod with pleasure. I love the way he tastes on my tongue. I love the springy, soft texture of the head and the satiny ridge of the glans. I love the soft foreskin, the girth of it, and how it stands cocked slightly to the right against his stomach. 

I took my time with him. There was no sense in rushing the job. Illya was already irritable; the higher his satisfaction, the more tractable he would become. Besides, it had been a while since I had tasted my pretty Russian prick. I wanted it to last. I only sped up my ministrations when Illya growled fiercely and bucked impatiently into my mouth. I kept my rhythm steady as I took hold of his balls and rolled them gently. He gasped; then my mouth was flooded with his ejaculate. I held him tenderly in my mouth until the tremors of his orgasm had subsided. 

I released his softening cock and I heard him sigh softly in satisfaction. 

"Come here and give me my dessert," he whispered in a voice full of wanton promise. 

"Such a dirty old man," I murmured with a lascivious smile. I climbed up the bed, kneeling beside his head and lowering my erection to his mouth. As I stroked my hard length, his lips tenderly surrounded the head, tongue bathing the opening and the glans in saliva. I didn't hold back. Soon I was coming into his sweet mouth, and he suckled at me until I was drained away. It was a pleasant enough orgasm, but not spectacular. However, the night was still young, and I still had some stamina left in my old body. 

I then positioned myself next to him, lying back with a sigh of contentment. 

"Now what makes you think you can --or should-- infiltrate Hayward's compound alone?"

I stared at Illya with a flabbergasted look. He had gone that quickly from sex back to the topic of my plans for the arms dealer. 

"I see what you are up to," I said. "Feed me, sex me, now let's talk shop?" 

He snorted with evident irritation, echoed in the glare he dealt me. "Be serious, Napoleon."

I glanced at him with a look that suggested I was nothing but serious. At first his frown deepened, and then his expression lightened. There was a hint of a smile in his eyes when he reached over and touched my face.

"You know I have never been good at pillow talk."

That made me smile, and when I smiled, he smiled. I took hold of the hand that tenderly caressed my cheek and kissed his fingertips. "No, you really are not," I chuckled. 

"So tell me," he said, turning towards me. "What do you have in mind with this Hayward affair?"

I sighed a little too loudly perhaps. Might as well talk with him about it. He won't give it up until I do anyhow. "I will go in posing as a broker buying for a terrorist-cell client. That way I can sniff around the facility, maybe find out what happened to Fairchild and Milliner. Then I'll complete objective B." that was the destroy part of the search and destroy mission. 

"Why must you do this, and why must you do it alone?"

"Several reasons, tovarisch," I said as I tuned myself so that we were face to face. I ticked them off on my fingers. "They won't expect me. They won't expect a single old man to be a threat. The cover that I'll assume will fit well enough to make them give me the access I need on the compound. I might even get them to give me the grand tour. After all, I have to be certain that my client is getting top-notch materials from a top-notch organization."

"Quality control and oversight are essential in the business of mayhem." Illya deadpanned, but I saw the twinkle of amusement in his eyes. 

"Last, but not least, I can't send in another team. Trained agents cost too much money; I refuse to waste any more resources. There are starving children all over the world...."

"That need the budget overflow more," Illya finished for me. He had heard this little speech from me many times now that I was Number One of Section One in North America. I now understood why Waverly had been such a skinflint with our operations budget. The fact that the UN budget for our operation can leak into aid packages had been quite a shock to me when I had taken over the position. I had never known that my erstwhile wardrobe budget had been eating into medical aid for some of the poorest nations. I expediently reformed my spending habits. 

"Yes," I replied, kissing his lips softly. I felt them tighten into a slight frown beneath my own. "What is it now?"

"I don't like it." Illya was never one to tap dance around his opinion. However, I was the diplomat of our team, so it was not always necessary for him to put aside his blunt demeanor. I kissed him again.

"You don't have to, partner mine," I whispered against his lips. 

"But you are still going to do it," he hissed at me, then nipped at my lower lip. My offended flesh was immediately soothed by his wet tongue after this unexpected little punishment. I gasped, more in surprise than in pain, and saw the look of satisfaction on Illya's face.

"You brat," I growled as I lunged at him, knocking him on his back. I mounted him, kissing him firmly. It was my turn to take control. I had plans, so many plans. Tonight, I would hear him call my name breathlessly. I wanted to see the sweat trickle down his sides, see the tendons stand out on his neck, and see his toes curl up. Tonight, I would listen to his heart beat in a rapid tattoo, like war drums beating out the passion between us. Tonight I would feed the hunger of his love. He had been starved of contact when I finally found him, the real Illya, the inner child beneath the Ice Prince, and drew him out. 

Tonight he was home, by my side. Tomorrow, I would be gone. We both have grown accustom to seizing the moment; It had been a part of our lives for so very long that we knew no other way to love. There would be no more shoptalk tonight. 

End.


End file.
